


when the sky burns and the stars fall (i’ll be holding your hand)

by Nikiforlove



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Eros! Yuuri, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Greek gods, M/M, Not completely accurate, Pining, Psyche! Viktor, eros and psyche au, eventual trust and love, infatuation vs love, you’re in for a ride
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-08 00:10:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15231081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikiforlove/pseuds/Nikiforlove
Summary: When the only thing he can hear is the wind’s voice whipping that moonshine hair of his behind, or the pulsating beat of his heart, the awed breaths he’s taking,-- when he compares it to what life has been, those chaotic, loud, and never-yielding days, he pales.Because if this is what you get when the buzz is all but alienated,-- if this is the degree of its impact on him--“I guess,” Viktor breathes shakily, eyes so desperately trying to see it all, hands trying to grasp the non-concrete, heart trying to feel all there is, “I’m-- I’m a tiny bit different after all.”———or, the eros and psyche au that nobody asked for.in case you aren’t familiar with the story of eros and psyche,basically, psyche! viktor is absolutely stunning, like, ethereal stunning, so stunning that people begin comparing him to aphrodite, and comparing gods to mortals is a no-no, so aphrodite, sends eros! yuuri to go make viktor fall in love with the ugliest man on earth as revenge, but, what happens when yuuri himself ends up hopelessly in love at first sight with the stardust silver-haired man ?— with deviations and yoi flavoured adjustments to the classic tale, of course. <33





	when the sky burns and the stars fall (i’ll be holding your hand)

**Author's Note:**

> hi ! this has been sitting in my google docs for half a year, first chapter 4/5ths complete. so, i decided to continue it, finally. here we are ! 
> 
> WARNING! there will be graphic scenes depicting anxiety attacks in this chapter, so read with caution.

  
Viktor Nikiforov was ten years old, and he was beautiful.

  
—

"Vitya!" A gruff call echoed through the house, seeping through the cracks of Viktor’s door. Inside, a small boy peeked out of his blanket, yawning at the sudden disturbance. Being a light-sleeper sucked. Trudging out of his room, he spotted his father sitting at the table, concentrating on a small piece of parchment.

"Yes, papa?" He answered softly, brushing the hair from his face.

"Go and buy some bread," the man yawned, dropping a small pouch of coins into the boy's hand. “Ah, and take Mila with you. S’m fresh sunlight wouldn’t hurt.Go buy some sweets with the change,” he muttered, “--and share.”

Viktor looked up, at his father and at the sack of coins, eyes flitting back and forth, slowly, slowly, realizing its implications.

Then, he beamed-- like the childish boy that he was, because he always found it a thrill to go walking around, and even more so with the promise of sweets waiting at the end. (The fact that he did this almost everyday didn't seem to deter Viktor’s excitement, because he was positively bouncing.)

"Thank you, papa!"

And off he went, rushing into his bedroom with a ditzy look on his face, stumbling over air. "Mila, Mila! We're going to the market!" He exclaimed, quickly, yet gently hoisting his one year-old sister up from the bed and into his arms. The girl giggled excitedly as Viktor smiled, her small hands reaching up to play with shining, silver locks that dangled and danced in the sunlight up until his waist.

With the baby safely in his grasp, he walked to the kitchens, slinging a small, wooden basket up his arm. "Ready, Mila?" He asked, a high-pitched squeal following curtly. Viktor laughed brightly, pushing the door open as he felt his sandals step onto the dry soil.

The dirt roads leading to the market were narrow and uneven, cracked from the scorching heat; and Viktor felt the dried up dirt granules slide against his feet, slowly, but surely wearing down his leather sandals.

Small plants and flowers sprouted on the side of the paved path, decorating the walk to the market pleasantly. Viktor silently thought he'd ought to water them more often. They were such a heartwarming sight,-- it'd be such a shame to watch them wilt. Fields of green meadows could be spotted a few meters from the house, eventually leading into a thick, vast forest that connected them to a neighboring town.

Most of the nearby houses' windows and doors were shut tight, as not many people were awake at the crack of dawn, save for fishmongers and cart pushers, heading to the bay and the market place respectively, carrying out their duties. The sky gleamed a soft mix of bright blue and the sun's waking orange, sweet morning air breezing around.

"Look at the sky, Mila, isn't it wonderful?" Viktor sighed, the edge of the market already in sight.

Mila smiled, stubby fingers pointing to the sky fervently, eyes bubbling with delight. "Yeah, that's the sky!" he giggled, taking a step into the cobbled path that marked the marketplace.

Then, all eyes were on him.

It was as if a ball of light suddenly stepped in, twinkling brightly in the corner of everyone's eyes-- and he fit the part.

Infamous moonlight hair draped around his shoulders, swaying brightly in the breeze, a soft twinkle from the light's reflection every now and then. Pale alabaster skin that made him seem so lithe and ethereal, a gentle glow emanating from his skin every time he moved that supplied the misconception of him being something more than a mortal.

His plump, rosy lips that encased a perfect set of pearly white teeth, blinding when he smiled. And not to mention his blue, blue eyes that seemed to have a shade of their own, as if tiny sapphires encrusted his irises, a color that made anyone and everyone want to jump in them and relish their sinking down until they didn't know and couldn’t speak anything else aside from Viktor Nikiforov.

It all seemed to gnaw on one's senses until you were compelled to drown for this boy, to never take your eyes off him, to do as he pleases for a single smile, a single look, a single laugh.

Stunning, that he was.

"Oh, Viktor!"

"Good morning, Viktor, Mila!"

"Viktor, dear! How are you?"

"Come buy some fruit, Viktor!"

“Viktoor, fish!”

“Viktor, come play!”

"Viktor, come have some vegetables for you and your family!"

"Mornin' Viktor!"

Greetings and offers came bustling straight at him, a dozen voices mixing and clashing in the air. A haphazard concoction of smiles, sparks, and the losing of oneself.

He grinned brightly, almost threatening to outshine the sun and blind the eyes.

"G’morning!" he greeted back for all to hear, proceeding to walk to the bread stall, like always. Because this was normal. These blitzes of attention came every time Viktor stepped in, and solely when Viktor came in were absolutely ordinary.

But he was ten. A small child. To him, it was funny, and he rather liked all the attention, so, this was normal.

"Father wants some bread, please,” he asked Dione at her stall, propping up his basket on the side, and she smiled gently. Dione was an old woman who absolutely made the sweetest, most scrumptious bread for miles and miles, her wrinkle-lined face an almost-everyday sight to the boy.

"Of course, dear," came her shaky breath, eyes twinkling with mirth as she took Viktor's basket and slowly filled it with piping hot bread until it overflowed.

Viktor's mouth practically watered at the scent, with Mila reaching out to grab one as soon as the scent wafted to her nose. "Thank you!" He smiled gratefully, (Mila mumbled some garbled words,) fetching the pouch of coins from his pocket when Dione's voice made itself present.

"Oh no, dear! No need to pay old Dione, just go enjoy the yummy bread, yes?" She laughed weakly, lowering the basket of bread into Viktor's arms, warmth easily pouring into his skin, the smell of flour grasping his senses.

"B-but Dione, I have to pay you! Something this good can't go for free!" he protested, placing the pouch on the table.

"Nonsense!" She laughed, "It's nothing special. Just bread, you see?" And Viktorpouted, cerulean eyes gazing into Dione's wistful grey.

Viktor's father was an esteemed tradesman. His expertise was in buying, selling and trading, and of course he'd teach his eldest son all the basics, the rules. From a very young age, Viktor learned how to know a good deal from bad, how to persuade people into buying, and most of all, how to do it honestly. Mikhail’s pride rested on his honest business, never taking less than he deserved, but never taking more, and that was something he told Viktor every single day, something sure to be engraved into his mind.

And he'd definitely inherited Mikhail's pride and ego.

“You make the best bread and you know it," he complained stubbornly, pushing the pouch further towards Dione. A fragile chuckle reached Viktor’s ears. "I'll take your coins next week, if you're so insistent," she replied softly, easily dropping the pouch back onto Viktor's hands. The familiar jingle of coins never seemed so cold. "But that's what you said last week!"

"Go on now, I have more customers to attend to!" She said, patting Viktor on the head and pushing him onwards. And Viktor huffed, frowning slightly as he reluctantly bid goodbye and made his thanks present once again.

(--well, she was the one who wanted to give him the bread, right? It wasn’t his fault.)

He reached the middle of the marketplace when Asinus passed by. "Asinus!" his hand shot up, eyes alight and excited. The middle-aged sweet-maker immediately turned to look at the boy. "Why, Viktor, Mila! What brings you here today?" Viktor smiled, quickly shifting moods. The man was always a good conversationalist. Asinus was ruffling Mila's red tufts of hair when Viktor replied. "Bread and sweets!" He winked, lifting the pouch of coins from his pocket, just when Asinus had dropped a bag of his sweets onto Viktor’s bread basket, laughing heartily.

"There you go, boy! Go off now, and don't tell the other kids I gave them to ya!" And Viktor was about to disagree and argue, but then the man was long gone, running off to open his shop that already had a line of children waiting in front. Viktor bit his lip.

Why did no one want his coins? Papa had earned them honestly and earnestly, and he even polished them himself! They weren't bad coins or anything, that was for sure. Viktor continued his walk home afterwards, kicking up the loose dirt in petty anger.

  
\-- and not thirty seconds into his dazed walking, it happened again. Sinta came skipping by with a basket of vegetables, quickly slinging it on Viktor's wrist with a quick wink and no explanation, but Viktor guessed it was because she wanted Viktor and Mila to "Grow up healthy and strong!" like she always said. Before Viktor could even process what had happened, she was gone. So he merely sighed, already seeing the way the pattern was forming. The whole town hated his coins. He decided it would be best to scurry home before anything else happened, picking up his pace.

He slipped into a brisk walk, wanting to get home as fast as he could without either dropping the food or the infant in his hands, and he was thisclose to tasting victory, before he was stopped by a girl calling his name from behind him, just as he was at the edge of the market. "Viktor!" She called, running after him. It was Mellie, the farmer's nine year-old daughter.

Eugh.

Viktor didn't-- he didn’t really like her, to be honest. Unlike the others who tried to be inconspicuous enough when watching him, her efforts not to be seen following him around town were absolutely zilch, non-existent. He didn't usually mind people looking at him, since it didn’t impact his day anyway, but she always took every opportunity to meddle in his business, and that irked him.

But hey, Viktor was raised to be polite.

"Hi, Mel!" He forced a greeting, a phony sheen of recognition shading his features.

She let out and indignant squeal, hurriedly placing something round and light on his head, her eyes flitting from corner to corner, nervously. He reached up and brushed his hand across the item, fingers feeling familiar touch of soft, lush petals, and the slight pinprick of thorns at the side.

"...Roses?" he murmured softly, lips moving faster than the mind. He locked his gaze onto the girl’s, toned with confusion and the subconscious plea for enlightenment. Meanwhile, Mellie quickly found herself turning a bright red, fiddling with her dress as she struggled to look straight into those bright, blue eyes of his. "I-I was just bored a-and so I-I just... th-then I saw you walk by, a-and- ye-yeah... b-bye!" She squeaked so quickly, that Viktor hardly understood, then proceeded to run away as fast as she came.

Okay.

And so, Viktor went home with a basket full of warm bread, a sack of sweets, a second basket of vegetables (he didn’t even own the basket), a lush crown of deep, red roses on his head, and his money untouched. Mila giggled at seeing her brother struggle to balance it all up the stairs of their home.

"Again?" Mikhail sighed in exasperation upon seeing his son walk in the dining room. "Vitya, we talked about this. You can't just keep accepting these! First of all, it’s rude, and it’ll make you look shameless! Second, don’t be such a spoiled brat, you already have enou--"

"I'm sorry, papa! It's not like I didn't try to pay, I did, really! Right, Mila?" And the child laughed obliviously, simply thrilled at her brother's panicked voice. Viktor cursed the inability of year-old babies to talk coherently.

"It doesn’t sound convincing after years of repetition, Vitya!” He hissed, face softening at Viktor’s bowed head, a reluctant grunt leaving his lips. “Come now, we're writing notes of gratitude to everyone who gave you gifts, since we can't risk offending anyone if we return them either," Mikhail grumbled, standing up from his chair and heading to the office.

"Again?!" Viktor whined, lips twisted into a pout. His hand still hurt from last week’s writing, since Mikhail’s definition of ‘notes of gratitude’ were multi-paged essays depicting how thankful he was, listing a whole repertoire of how he would put their gifts into good use, then he had to write a prayer to the gods for them, then, it was ‘thank you very much’ all over again, in the most roundabout ways possible.

  
—

  
Viktor Nikiforov is twelve years-old when he realizes, that he might be a little different.

—

“Aw, crap!” He muttered under his breath, jumping over a wooden crate.

Skidding across the ground, he clutched the basket of bread close to his chest and scrambled away, chest heaving up and down.

Because, as much as the people loved him, apparently, Mrs. Anastas’ dog didn’t.

Hell, it’s name was ‘Cerby’, so, this was to be expected. It didn’t have three heads, no, but it was very large. It was also very fast.

Viktor swerved to the right, barely missing crashing into some wine barrels, and yet somehow, this freaking dog was still snapping at his heels.

Black, red-eyed, foamy mouthed, and two times the size of Viktor, he really didn’t know what had possessed him when he thought that petting it had been a good idea. The whole village knew how much of a menace this dog was to everybody that wasn’t Mrs. Anastas, very much like his namesake. But then again, in the hands of sleep, he looked so cute, so peaceful and idyllic, and Viktor was a well-known sucker for dogs.

Now that he thinks about it, petting the dog seemed like a very ‘Viktor’ thing to do.

Mikhail would’ve called it ‘V-idiotic’, which Viktor thinks is a terrible pun.

Okay, one more turn, then a few more meters, and-- ah!

Something snagged at Viktor’s chiton, and that ‘something’ being a very, very, very intimidating dog-- well, that wasn’t good. “Get off, boy!” He hissed, pulling at the white fabric stuck in the dog’s mouth, slobber getting all over the place. Meanwhile, Cerby showed no mercy, grinding his teeth on the poor, poor cloth, snarling at Viktor’s hands when they got too close.

However, right when Viktor’s about to start praying to Hades for safe entrance in the underworld, he gets an idea. Grabbing a fistful of bread, he shoves it in Cerby’s face, the delicious smell diverting the dog’s attention from Viktor’s sweaty chiton to the sweet, hot bread.

Giving him just enough time to scramble away, turning and twisting around the narrow streets, to cement his escape. The fact that he doesn’t exactly know where he is and where he’s headed slips his mind, currently bubbling with thrill and exhilaration.

Then, he’s laughing.

Laughing because his heart was roaring, the wind was whipping against his hair, his feet were running, and he was free. A sense of liberation, if you will. Giggling because his eyes were alight, and because the world around him was a blur, a concoction of colors, flashing by his eyes.

Grinning even when he trips over a dig in the soil, crashing and rolling down the side of a hill, because, apparently, he was on a hill. Tumbling down, he landed on sand, his back thumping against the ground first, his body spread-eagled.

“That was fun!” He yelled loudly into the 4:00 pm air, chest heaving up and down, silver hair in disarray and clinging to his sweat-sheened skin.

He opens his eyes to a saccharinely blue sky above him, and the ocean’s scent wafting into his senses.

Sea.

Viktor sat up, twisting his neck to scan his surroundings. That’s right, he landed on sand. And, if his observations were correct, he was at the shore.

Damn, he must’ve been running longer than he had realized.

But that’s okay, because Mila’s still asleep in her room, and Papa and Mama are in the neighboring town at a friend’s house for wine and cheese. It’s okay if he gets home later than expected. Plus, by the time he gets home, the bread will be hard and cold, so it’s better to eat it here by himself and just get a new basketful on the way home. He’s pretty sure he can navigate the way back home from the shore.

The fishmongers are still out at sea and nobody really comes out to the shore at this time of day, so, it’s just him and the waves.

He stares out blankly into the ocean, a vast abyss of salt-water and blue. Waves come crashing into the shore, pushing up pebbles and shells, and yet simultaneously dragging them back into the undertow. The soft sounds of birds squawking, the spritz of water bristling through the air and against Viktor’s face, the slight sticky feeling it gives you. If you squint really, really hard, you can even see small dots of brown and black, most likely fishing boats.

That’s when he notices the tall structure at the corner of his eye, slowly turning his head to look at it.

It was the rock spire.

Being the tallest structure on the peninsula, you could see it from practically every spot, so yes, Viktor knew about it.

It had stone steps carved into the side of the structure, spiraling around it, reaching ‘till the summit. They say that centuries ago, their ancestors had placed those steps there so it could be used as a watchtower. There were plenty of ghost stories about it too, like the spire being a popular place for committing suicide, or for dumping the corpses of your enemies into the oceanic throes.

Well, nobody really climbs it anymore, probably because the stairs were already chipping away, eroding from the constant sea wind. And actually daring to climb it was a dangerous affair, because one wrong step, and you’d find yourself falling. But then again, Viktor wasn’t exactly one for good choices, that much was clear. So, when he finds himself at the base of the rock spire, he doesn’t put any second thought to it, and starts walking up.

It’s a solid 10-15 minute trek up, but Viktor thinks perhaps 3 minutes had been wasted in reluctance and hesitation, because there were some scares, like the tip of the step he was on suddenly crumbling away, or when he was almost knocked back by a particularly fierce gust of wind. The steps were only wide enough for one person, so if a group of people decided to climb the stairs, they’d have to be in single-file, Viktor thinks solemnly.

By the time he was at the last few dozens of steps, the air had gotten unbearably cold, his skin turning pink and his lips chattering whenever wind breezed by. Even more so when he actually reached the top.

“255….256….257,” he gasped, falling down onto the cold, cold stone surface, immediately bouncing back up from how, well, cold it was. Yes, the sun was still shining, still very much bright, but the cool wind was enough to null it.

So he remains standing up instead, hands on his hips and his feet a few inches from the edge.

And then.

And then, he thinks.

It dawns on him as softly as a whisper; it hits him as loud as thunder, eyes trained on the ocean’s blue, stretching wide, wide, wide, until it met the sky.

He realizes the harsh and frigid breeze is a sweet ode to isolation, kissing his stardust skin.

That the rock beneath his feet, is a story far older than him, granting foundation.

He thinks about the sudden, yet loyal silence that suddenly explodes in streaks of the sky’s orange and the sea’s blue, the apparent and absolute magnitude he has not-- that he cannot comprehend, but that of he can feel.

When the only thing he can hear is the wind’s voice whipping that moonshine hair of his behind, or the pulsating beat of his heart, the awed breaths he’s taking,-- when he compares it to what life has been, those chaotic, loud, and never-yielding days, he pales.

Because if this is what you get when the buzz is all but alienated,-- if this is the degree of its impact on him--

“I guess,” Viktor breathes shakily, eyes so desperately trying to see it all, hands trying to grasp the non-concrete, heart trying to feel all there is, “I’m-- I’m a tiny bit different after all.”

—

Viktor Nikiforov is fourteen years-old when he realizes, that shadows exist within light.

—

“Dione, you can’t keep doing this, please!” He grumbled lowly, firmly planting his worn-down sack of coins on the table. “Take half, if you’re so insistent! Dione, please!”

And the old lady thinned her lips, a soft sigh swiftly breaking through. “Alright, Viktor. Give it here,” she said, opening her palm.

Viktor gleamed with triumph and success, threatening to outdo the sun. “Fantastic!” he exclaimed, dropping half-a-dozen silver coins into her hand. “Bye, Dione! No refunds!”

“Viktor, wait! This-- this is triple what the original price was!” She called worriedly, waving her hand for him to return. “Don’t sound so glum about it! You’ve given me enough bread for quintuple,-- no, more than a hundred times of that!” and then he ran, her voices of protest slowly turning fainter, and fainter, and fainter, until all he could hear was the everyday noise of the marketplace.

But then, he heard something else.

“Guess what, I saw Nikiforov pay Dione, what a fucking miracle.”

“Oh? Is he finally gonna stop whoring himself for goods?”

“Nah dude, I bet pretty boy’s gonna start slutting around for money next.”

A gaggle of menacing chortles reverberated from the corner turn just ahead of Viktor, catching a quick glimpse of the rough-looking boys, maybe a year or two older than him. Hurriedly, took a few steps backwards, praying that he hadn’t been seen. Heart in his throat, he listened.

“The kid’s a witch, I’m telling you. Or maybe it was his dad? I bet he uses the kid as an super-asset for his trades or someshit,” a voice clamored, hushed, but not hushed enough.

“Pfft, that’s plausible. Hell, one wink, the King would sell the country to that little piss.”

“But in all honesty, yeah, he looks like some god offspring, but doesn’t he tick you off? Playing his looks to his advantages, coiling all the villagers around his pretty little finger. Have you seen him ever go home empty-handed? I swear, he goes out to market to buy fish, and he goes home with my a week of what my family eats.”

Viktor paled. Is it that bad? He looks at his hands, white, sweat sheened, shivering. Is he that bad of a person? Well, yeah, it gets out of hand sometimes, but does it really? Does it really make him give off the vibe of a vulture, taking advantage of people?

“Fucking disgusting attention-whore.”

He gulps, breath shallowed and heavy. The ground feels like ice to his feet, wobbly and off-balance. Does papa know? Mama? Do they think of me like this too? The heat sears behind Viktor’s eyes, and the ice under his feet morph into lava, urging him to run home.

—-

Throwing the basket of bread onto the nearest table in sight, he locks himself in his room, crashing onto the hairdresser.

He grips the wood tightly, panting deeply from the run, body shaking. He looks up, up into the mirror, and sees.

Moonshine hair blown and frazzled, hung over his shoulders, draped across his face, sticking to his sweat. It casts a low shadow over his features. Turbulence of feelings rattle inside Viktor, cracking in his joints, smeared over his heart. He looks beautiful.

Beautiful despite the scowl on his lips, the terrified look in his eyes, coupled with stained tracks trailing down his cheeks, cold liquid on his eyelashes; contrasting the boiling layer of glassy tears that were welling up. Stunning despite his skin flushed and aggravated, mouth gasping for air, for deliverance.

He should be happy. Primarily, that’s what people think beautiful people should think when staring at a mirror, to be happy.

But Viktor could feel shame. He could feel anger. Confusion. Insecurity. Hatred.

Slut. Whore. Disgusting.

It sears in his mind, flashing brightly.

And it hurt, it hurt, oh, it hurt.

It hurt because it was true.

He always knew that gifts to this extent was somewhat immoral and wrong, that something always had to be given in exchange. What had Viktor given? All he had done was stand and look pretty.

“I swear, he goes out to market to buy fish, and he goes home with my a week of what my family eats.”

People work hard for what he receives daily. People actually work and do labor for what he gets without charge. Sweat, labor, effort. And a useless 12 year-old waltzes in and snatches everything from them. A useless 12 year-old boy has the nerve to laugh and make a fuss of what he gets, when they can’t even afford it. He has the nerve to do it everyday, knowing fully what would happen when he steps in the marketplace.

Is that him? Is that what Viktor is?

Why? Why was he like this? A swirl of nausea shifts in his stomach, he was so fucking disgusting. Every single day, he had done it. Why had he done it? Because it was funny? It was nice? Reality comes crashing down onto Viktor, and he realizes. He realizes, and realizes, and realizes. All the things he’d done, he’d said, they were all disgusting. What a brat, he thinks. Tears falling harder when he realizes that he was that brat, he was the disgusting one.

But what could he have done? If he didn’t accept the gifts, he’d offend the gift givers. They’d think that he thinks he’s too good for them, that he really was just a stuck-up spoiled kid. But then if he accepts, all the others would think he’s a vulture, exploiting their weakness to his angel-like demeanor, using it for selfish reasons. What was expected of him? This was all a fucking mess! It’s contradictory, it’s wrong, it’s all a convoluted mix of everyone’s opinions and society’s beliefs. What was he supposed to do?

“What?!” He finds himself yelling to the person in the mirror. “Tell me! What am I supposed to do?!”

The person in the mirror looks back at him with so much pain, with so much despair, eyes crying out for mercy. He finds himself mimicking the person in the mirror. Tears drip, and drip, and drip, choked cries gurgling from his throat. Eyes red and blown, he slowly wills a smile onto his face.

A soft, gentle smile on his face, and it’s so wrong when he finds the boy in the mirror smiling and looking beautiful.

This was Viktor Nikiforov, he thinks bitterly.

Him.

—

The next day, VIktor just wants to get away from it all.

He opens the door, sunlight slapping him in the face. Sandals rub on soil, steps are being taken.

The left leads to the marketplace, so that’s a no. The right leads to the river bank, where people do their laundry, another no.

So, Viktor skids forward, lowering himself down onto the grassy plains, connecting to the woods.

The forest, it’s-- a good place.

The scarce sunlight escaping the trees’ protection are patterned on the grass, shimmering with the leaves when the wind blows. Sweet, soft birdsong is heard echoing through the greenery, setting a scene serene and tranquil. Viktor wandered around for a while, admiring the large tree trunks, amused at small animals scurrying around.

Not quite like the spire, but similar. The sense of safety, at least, is present in both, and that’s what really makes it so precious. A place where you can escape reality, even if just for a while, a place in which there is no one but yourself to continuously judge the actions that you take, the things that you say, no one but you to dictate what you feel and if you should feel them at all. It’s as if he could slowly feel the chains loosening, slipping against his arms and falling to the floor; he could breathe. In fact, it was so easy, he could ridicule himself for finding any hardship in breathing. (When the memories sink in with a soft touch of past apprehension, he can feel the chains rattle with the sour reminder that it isn’t.)

He wonders why he hasn’t been here sooner. A haven was right across his home, just waiting to be noticed.

And now he has, and it’s wonderful.

Picking small flowers sprouting from the soil (Mila liked flowers), he walked on, taking everything in.

Soft trickling sounds wafted into Viktor’s ears, the telltale sign of water. Intrigued, he swerves and feels the blades of grass tickle his feet, walking towards the source. Louder and louder, it became, until he is met with water so clear and pure, the riverbed could be seen crystal clear, small fish guzzling about. A small and winding river it was, only waist-deep. Viktor would’ve jumped in with no further thoughts, but alas, he hadn’t brought a change of clothes.

Next time, he thinks dreamily.

He settles down beside the river, leaning on the trunk of a big, sturdy tree.

Plans to simply sit and admire is all but lost when Viktor finds himself being lulled with the soft cascading water, the bristle of leaf on leaf, and the delectable birdsong invading his senses. The comfort of soft grass cushioning his bottom, and the sweet, unadulterated air letting him breathe easy quickly carries him off to Hypnos’ arms.

—

He is awoken by something undesired.

Someone.

(And all of a sudden, the chains spring and wrap around his body, constricting and restricting.)

(Which is kind of funny, he thinks, because he hadn’t even noticed his chains until yesterday, but now that he has, he can feel their weight digging into his skin.)

“Excuse me, please wake up!”

The world is shaking, Viktor thinks. Until he realizes that it isn’t, but he is.

“Yes?” He murmurs under his breath, groggily opening his orbs to see a brown-eyed stranger inappropriately close to himself, shaking his arm.

“Are you lost, by any chance? I could help you find your way back home, if you are. Free of charge, for somebody as pretty as you, yes?” He winks, stretching a hand out.

Viktor feels his face shift into a terribly condescending look, drowsiness swiftly being replaced by irritation.

“Uh, no. I’ll be going now, thanks,” he adds quickly, because this man was certainly not a local, he was sure of that. He practically knew the whole village by name, and he was brought up well-enough to know that you shouldn’t talk to creepy strangers in the middle of the forest.

Viktor stands up, tightening his grip on his small bouquet of flowers, hastily walking away, but the bloodrush he gets from suddenly standing up fails to aid his escape. “Wait, miss!” The man calls, tugging at his sleeve.

Ugh.

“Mister,” he corrects testily, pulling away from his grasp. Being mistaken for a girl did happen sometimes, but it still didn’t happen enough for it to be a norm. So far, maybe 4 or 5 times? He’s not sure.

“Uh, wait, please!” The guy tries again, forcefully grabbing Viktor’s hand to spin him around.

Viktor winces, another foreign hand draping on his shoulder. “As I said before, maybe I can escort you to your home, yes?” He asks, a slow slur on the latter half of his sentence. “I am Stavros,” he says smugly, “Crown prince of Salveria, perhaps you know of me?” A hopeful light plays in his eyes, quickly dampened by Viktor’s flat out and immediate-- “No.”

That was a lie.

Papa often does business at Salveria, so yes, he knows Prince Stavros. He just felt a little bit pissed at the Prince right now. Crushing his hopes felt good.

“Well,” the Prince awkwardly coughs, “Since I am a Prince,” he says, as if Viktor didn’t realize it’s implications the first time around, “I can at least offer you a glass of wine in my chariot before you depart?”

“Um, I’m fourteen,” Viktor clarifies, shuffling his feet.

“Oh, um. Haha. H-how righteous of you to follow the law so diligently!” He smiles, nodding his head.

The tension was so thick, you could cut it.

Based on common knowledge and town gossip, Prince Stavros of Salveria was a spoiled little brat, despite his age of eighteen. The people of Salveria feared King Serafim’s resignation, because everyone knew that the economy would crash with Stavros at reign. The only thing good about Stavros was his wealth, and his….. yeah, that was it.

The Kingdom of Salveria’s fate rested in the possibility of a wise and well-bred Queen, one good enough to make up for Stavros’ shittiness. And some solid advisors too. But looking at Stavros’ attempts at wooing, chances didn’t look good. Unless he bought a good wife, just like how he bought all of his (corrupt) advisors, then Salveria was doomed. The town of Aria was already expecting a boom in immigration in the next couple of years.

“Right. I need to go now,” he interjects impatiently, turning around to walk away.

“Uh, wait!” That annoying voice digs in Viktor’s ears, and before he knew it, Stavros’ hand was on his wrist, tugging him back.

“What do you want?!” He snaps, flicking his wrist from Stavros’ hold. And inside, Viktor knows he’s glaring at Stavros, lips downturned into a scowl.

Ah, fuck. He just yelled at one of the mainland countries’ future king.

He’s right about to apologize profusely and ask forgiveness when--

“Sorry! I’m sorry that I’m wasting your time! I just-- I don’t know what to do, I’m usually better at this, it’s-- it’s just that-- you look r-really pretty and-- fuck, c-can I just ask for your name? I-I did give you mine, after all,” he says with the guiltiest tone Viktor’s ever heard, making Viktor feel like a fucking asshole.

“Um,” he fidgets, “Viktor.”

That should be enough, right? Not a blatant lie that could land Papa in jail for lying to royalty, and not his complete name, so he couldn’t pinpoint him out of all the Viktors that lived in Greece.

Stavros nods, a small smile ghosting his lips, but he still looks so fucking sad? Like he was the victim here. Well, he was? Kind of? Victim of Viktor’s temper? Dammit, that makes Viktor feel worse.

Viktor thinks about how he could cheer Stavros up, so he thinks about what makes himself feel happy, and the thought of Mila laughing pops in, but because he can’t really show him Mila’s adorable laughter when she was sleeping at home, he thinks about what makes Mila laugh, and then, he thinks about flowers, flowers that flutter in the air while Mila laughs and chases them, flowers like the ones he’s currently gripping in his palm.

Oh. Well, a villager leaving a prince teary-eyed in the forest wasn’t good for Aria’s reputation, and Viktor still felt like a huge jerk, so, it was worth a shot.

“I-I have to go now, but it was nice to meet you. Sorry for snapping at you a while ago,” he says in one breath, he wonders if it actually came out as a sentence, and shoves the small pile of flowers into Stavros’ hands, blushing profusely all the while.

And the Prince immediately lights up, staring slack-jawed at the flowers, about to say something else to Viktor (probably something annoying again), but before he can ruin Viktor’s good deed, he cuts him off with an: “Okay, bye!” and dashes away, vanishing into the trees.

(In the morning, when Viktor wakes up to chariots, soldiers, horses, trumpets, and The Royal Family Sideris of Salveria gathered outside in the field in front of his home, with Prince Stavros smack in the middle, holding a bouquet that looked very similar to the purple and yellow ones Viktor picked the previous day, announcing his unadulterated “admiration” for Viktor Nikiforov to the whole world, he really, really, really, wishes he could travel back in time and kick Prince Stavros’ nuts in the forest, shaving him bald with rocks.)

—-

What the hell.

“I, Prince Stavros, heir to the Family Sideris of the Kingdom of Salveria, wish to announce my ever-yielding and unadulterated admiration for Viktor Nikiforov, of the wonderful town Aria,” he exclaimed, saddled on a white horse.

What the hell.

“Yesterday, we met in the forest. I was immediately enamoured by his exquisite, god-like appearance! His long, shining silver hair! His jeweled eyes of blue! The sweetest shade of pink on his lips!”

What the hell.

“Not one wink of sleep did I take the night before! I could not sleep, images of his blinding beauty enslaving my mind! Memories of the fleeting moments I had spent with this fallen god from Olympus! Aphrodite incarnate!,”-- this had caused the very, very, very large crowd to murmur and whisper among themselves; everyone knew what would happen, comparing a mortal to the gods above.

What the hell.

“I will now recite a few of my admiration-stricken poems that I have crafted in my bedroom, inspired by the gorgeous, stunning, Viktor Nikiforov!” the Prince cleared his throat, pulling a scroll from his saddle bag. “Oh woe! Your beauty cannot be--”

“Stop!” Viktor yelled, running outside the front door to confront the idiot of a prince. “Stop, stop, stop!”

The bright light of day hits him almost instantaneously, hair and clothes still mussed from sleep. It’s almost sickening, how Stavros’ eyes burst with adoration at the sight of him.

“Ah, my love! How lovely of you to bless my morning with your divine presence— !”

Whether it was sheer anger, lack of sleep, or just a sudden spur of the moment, or the culmination of years of stress and frustration— Viktor can’t really decide on what it was that tipped him over the edge and sent him ablaze.

He grits his teeth, walks over to the prince, all decorated in princely garb, and slaps him.

The crowd stills all the incessant murmuring, the prince shock frozen, and Viktor is not about to back down.

“I, did not give you permission to pull this kind of stunt.”

Stavros’ eyes darted to look at Viktor, voice just barely coming out, “I— but y-you gave me flowers?”

“Flowers! Are flowers an invitation to march up to my house at the crack of dawn, blowing all your stupid trumpets?! Do you think that I would like to wake up to half of the royal family at my front door, listening to disgustingly sweet poems being announced for everyone to hear?!”

“Y-yes?”

“No! I gave you those flowers so you would shut up and leave! Maybe, if you spent your time actually learning how to properly govern a kingdom and at least tried to put in an effort to get to know and serve your people instead of waking people who were taking a very nice nap in the middle of a forest in order to flirt and hit on them and lead them back to your carriage for underage drinking, then you wouldn’t be so annoying!” he fumes, and something sparks in the air around Viktor, a jolt of electricity running through anyone who looked into his face, his blue eyes icy, yet glinting with bright, hot anger, teeth set and mouth twisted into an intimidating scowl.

Sun bouncing on his eyelashes, casting shadows on his cheeks, eyebrows slanted into a sharp angle that screamed irascibility. His hair draped across his chest, fluttering with the morning wind, glowing with a luminescence from the sunrise that made it look like something akin to the hot embers from a furnace, just waiting for something to burn. His fists clenched and chest broader than usual, His aura exuded power, wrath— something which was new. Something, which apparently, and almost not surprisingly, was beautiful.

Beautiful, and frightening, apparently, if the way that Stavros burst into tears, cowered and fled with his tail tucked in between his legs said anything.

Thus, the beginnings of Viktor’s infamy.

Aria’s untouchable god on earth, a deity that not even royalty could touch, a fey creature who looked absolutely stunning in every situation, every moment, a fallen angel of unadulterated beauty, the list goes on, and on, and on.

It’s absolutely disgusting.

—

Viktor Nikiforov was 18, and he was tired.

  
—

"Viktooooor," Mila groaned. "There's nothing to eat in the kitchens!"

"So?" he asked, barely looking up from reading his book. It was the exciting part! He really didn’t want any disturbances at the moment. "So,” she drawled in a playful tone, “Come with me and Yuri to the market! I wanna go to Asinus!” Mila hopped on Viktor’s bed, spreading her hands in the most space-consuming position possible, attempting to push Viktor off the edge. "Mama and Papa didn't leave me any money, plus, you're not allowed to go out at night," he replied, flipping a page from his book irritably.

Confess! He’s right in front of you, about to leave on his journey, confess, dammit! Viktor raged in his mind, very much invested in this particular scene. It’s not like he meant to become a romance novel enthusiast, he just was! And there was no helping what you were. Besides, it never hurt anyone, did it? Mikhail didn’t even notice Viktor’s acts of thievery in his library. (Yeah, Mikhail knew.)

"We don't need any coins if you're there!" Mila wiggled her eyebrows, poking her brother's arm repeatedly with a cheeky grin.

Viktor’s heart clenched sickeningly, teeth grinding in his mouth. He didn’t want to think about this. Not now. Old wounds (that never really healed) opening up again didn’t feel pleasant. "That's called taking advantage of people, and it's wrong," he scolded quietly, snapping his book shut. "Aww, you're no fun. You used to always receive free stuff!" she whined, face crinkling into a disappointed scowl. "That's exactly why I don't go out anymore!" he snapped, shouting loudly; his blue eyes turning into an icy glare. And Viktor could pinpoint the exact moment he saw fear materialize in Mila’s eyes, as it was quickly followed by regret in his own.

"Meanie! I'm taking Yurio and leaving!" she yelled back, stomping her feet as she ran off, mumbling insults as she went. "W-wait! Mila! You can't go out alone!" Viktor's anger completely dissipated, turning into panic; dreading the scolding that he'd receive if Mikhail found out that he'd let both his siblings wander around at night, but then his heart thumped with another feeling in it’s hold, a much, much greater one. It was worry, worry for his siblings who ran off, and then it was disappointment in himself, for snapping over such a tiny thing.  
  
Fuck, Viktor cursed. It’s been what, 2 years?

Two years and he still couldn’t get over it.

Why? Why, why why? It was just a fleeting thing, right? It was supposed to be a small matter. So why wasn’t it gone? Why could he still feel the bitter taste of his past? Seclusion was supposed to fix this. Time was supposed to heal. So why? Why, why why? Why was he like this?

And so Viktor burst out of the house, sprinting to the marketplace. The stars twinkled above him, and it almost seemed taunting, as he had to rely on the beautiful moonlight shine that symbolized all his hardships into lighting up his way.

A feeling of relief and fear flooded his systems as lamps came popping into his peripheral vision, sprinting even faster to find Mila and Yuri, to find them and go home, safe from them.

Then Viktor’s heart fell, and his head swirled, remembering the reason why he isolated himself in the first place, feeling it slap him across the face. He felt his breath hitch and quicken, stomach churning with unwanted nausea and disgust. Panic oozed from his very being, and he regretted stepping foot outside of his house immediately, because all of a sudden, he had reached the market, and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

Like a magnet, people would say. He was a magnet. Something that drew attraction, something that enraptured and enamoured. But then again, they said he was like a star, something that you couldn’t look away from, something that was too bright, too blinding to be fully seen by the naked eye. Some compared him to a god, something so ethereal and unbelievable that they almost refused to accept that he would walk by their side, like it was almost a sin to look at Viktor and see him as one of them, simply because he was more, much, much more in their eyes. And Viktor hated it. He hated it, hated it, he hated it.

He just wanted to be normal.

A terrifying silence overcame the market. And Viktor wanted to cry, to shout, to crumple to the ground and let the earth swallow him whole. But then the silence ended and the thunder came crackling. “Viktor Nikiforov!” they had yelled, they screamed, running and tripping over themselves to come rushing out of shops and bars to catch a glimpse of the legendary flower of Aria, the fallen god of beauty, the shining moon incarnate, Viktor Nikiforov.

Viktor cried as he saw the light mockingly disappear from his eyes.

Why, why, why? Not now! Not now, please!

Viktor felt his hair whipping his back with every frantic twist of his head, desperately scanning around for Mila and Yuri. He pushed through the people as he tried to run, tried to escape. He fell to the ground as his world fell into darkness, hundreds of unknown faces clouding above him, huddling over his petite, fragile body, faces that were struck by awe and wonder, eyes glassy and empty; seeing nothing but Viktor, being willingly sucked into the ever-living whirpool of his consuming attractiveness, his sensual allure. Commoners, tradesmen, children, warriors, royalty, you name it, they were there. They were there, massing over Viktor and his beautiful, glassy eyes that looked like they were about to burst.

leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone, why won’t you leave me alone?!

Viktor’s head screamed against the tsunami of fear and panic flooding in, sucking out all the breath from his lungs as he began to feel a sickening fire burn from the inside, yet causing cold shivers run up his spine, leaving an un-tastely feeling behind. Before he knew it, scalding, hot tears were flowing from his wide, wide eyes, blown with horror and hysteria, a manic demon rising up from the depths of hell and consuming him inside out. “G-go a-aw- awa--” he choked, voice broken and mutilated, salty tears glossing his lips as he crumbled further into the ground, hugging himself as he fell into the foetal position; mouthing his pleas over and over again, as his voice refused to make itself show.

leave me alone!

It was so fucking suffocating. As if all the air in the world had come to him, pressing and choking him from every direction, yet refusing to come into his lungs. He grappled for breath, fisting his hair in his hands as his nose hit the soil, lachrymose watering the earth with a gurgled, heart-broken sound finally came out from his mouth.

please...

  
But they wouldn’t stop. They wouldn’t stop their mouths from screaming his name, from yelling their praises and their hollow declarations of love, clashing and mixing in the air, intensifying and escalating by the minute, reaching Viktor’s ears as a revolting and nauseous blur of black noise, not being able to comprehend any of their words, and yet still being stabbed in the stomach by it.

leave me alone…

All Viktor could do was tremble and sob amongst the sea of people enclosing him, merely looking, adoring, and gazing in awe. Merely yelling and shouting, but never making any move to initiate contact of any kind. Never. Nothing could be felt except for the cold, cold wind breezing his back, nothing could be felt but their intense looks of wonder, their voices bouncing off his skin, nothing but emptiness and hollowness. That made it worse, so, so much more worse. It made Viktor feel so helpless and weak, so vulnerable and it made his stomach churn, tears spilling non-stop. It was so goddamn confusing! They were all so desperate and taken just to see him, and now they’ve got him on his knees, shivering and practically half-conscious with thousands of equally obscene and repelling feelings stabbing their knives into his heart, and he couldn’t feel a single human touch on him.

It was so cold.

A thin ring of ground between him and the masses were present, another blow to Viktor’s mind. A thin, empty ring of earthy soil that screamed I don’t want to touch you, I can’t touch you. Here were hundreds of people surrounding him, encompassing him, completely enslaved by his god-like appearance, and yet no one would touch him. No one would consider themselves worthy to go within two centimeters of his presence, no one would treat him as a human. No one saw Viktor for Viktor, no one accepted him as he was. No one, no one, no one.

When that was all he really wanted. It would’ve been so much better if they had stampeded over him. If they would’ve pelted thorny roses at him, bars of their gold, gems, jewels, whatever they brought to offer. It would’ve bees so much better if they’d grabbed his hair and tore it apart, if they’d pull him from every direction, if they made him shed blood. Because, at least he would’ve felt it. Would’ve felt something, anything, to remind him that these kind of things can be felt, people can actually initiate contact with his skin, that he was normal, that he was a person, that he was someone. But all he got was the thick night air wrapping his slimy, cold hands over his being, cooing sweet, sickening nothings into his heart, making him feel so alone, so isolated, so terrified; a harsh reminder that he wasn’t normal. And it hurt.

Then, someone decided that Viktor had finally built up enough torture and hysteria from them all, enough to release an earth-shaking, gut-wrenching scream.

He screamed as loud as his lungs allowed him to, something about his voice so deeply cutting, so piercing, as broken as it was, it was terrifyingly silencing. And so the crowd fell under a pregnant hush, and for the first time that night, all that everyone could hear was Viktor’s incoherent, incomplete chokes and sobs of his sorrow, his grief, his tears as they hit the floor, his choppy intake of air as he sent millions of silent screams, yells, pleas for mercy, for pity, calling for any compassion at all, barreling into their ears. The last thing Viktor heard before succumbing to darkness was the familiar call of “Vitya!” from a terror-stricken Mikhail.

—

Viktor was 25, and he was done.

—

“Vitya, you can’t.”

“I am perfectly capable of doing so,” a soft voice came through, riddled with emotions unreadable.

“No, you literally can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Your suitors and admirers,” he spoke with unbelievable malice in his tone, so finely woven, so intricately submerged in those words, “Are barricading the streets and the door, as always.”

“I’ll take the back.”

“No! This is exactly why they’ve increased lately! They know you’re planning to go out sooner or later, and you’re playing right into their hands! Do you remember the last time th--”

“I’m not fucking nineteen anymore, Mikhail!” Viktor snapped, whipping his head towards his father so fast, he could’ve sworn there was whiplash. His face was unnaturally stony, eyes cold and striking, lips downturned in the most beautifully, terrifying frown.

Then he turned back to the window, glaring at the hordes of people below. It was always their fault, wasn’t it? When were they going to fucking get over it?! He hasn’t stepped outside in two years, and they still came! Every single day, masses of people visited, every single day, Viktor felt the hatred scourging his heart. They just wouldn’t leave him alone.

(leave him alone!)

“Do not speak to me in that tone, Viktor. I am your father, and you will show me respect.” Mikhail’s voice booms and reverberates around the room, a tone of finality coating each word. Viktor almost flinches. His father is a kind man. He knows this, he’s seen it with his very eyes. In the way that his father buys him books and interesting things to bide his time with every time he comes home from his travels, in the way that his father always has the time to play a board game with Viktor, despite his busy schedule, in the way that he forbids Viktor to attend Dione’s funeral, for fear of his safety.

His father’s face remains stone-cold, grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him into his own room. His grip was tight, the pressure not enough to hurt, but enough to seal in his fate. “You will listen to me, and you will stay in here until the funeral is over. Do we have an agreement, Viktor?” he says flatly, unbudging and firm.

Viktor does not think he’s hated him more than he does at this very moment. He stares into his father’s dark, grey eyes with such helplessness, seething with anger that was pouring out of his fingertips.

“Yes, Father.” He spits out the last word as if it was made of venom, hatred crawling through his veins.

(and just before his father turns to close and lock the door, for a brief moment, he sees sadness in his eyes. pity.)

Before Viktor knows it, he’s crying. Hot tears cascade down his cheeks, dripping onto his hands as he does absolutely nothing to stop it. He’s too busy, too busy remembering. Remembering poor old Dione, who was always kind to him, who taught him how to make bread, remembering her grey eyes, wistful with mirth and wiser than they let on. Dione was one of the only people who treated him like he was normal, who treated him like he was human. Someone who gave him free bread because she knew that he loved her hot bread, someone who was kind to him, because she wanted to, and wasn’t compelled or egged on by his appearances.

And now, he was being deprived of showing her proper respect by attending her funeral.

Why?

Viktor raised his head, and turned to the side, face being met with his own face, reflected on a mirror.

Wrecked, and still beautiful.

It was his fault. His.

For being like this.

He’s wracked by a sudden onslaught of uncontrollable sobbing, chest heaving up and down, desperate for air, salt water pouring down like torrential downpour, face twisting into disgust as he moves closer to the mirror, eyes never leaving his own.

(t was his fault.)

Viktor stares at himself, anger building, lips scowling. He hates this. He hates this. He hates this. His hair is plastered all over his skin, sticky with sweat, tears and hatred. With his hands still shaking, breaths uneven and sharp, he fumbles with the drawer, extracting a knife from it’s confines. He looks at it, then back at his reflection. At it, then back at his reflection.

Fingers trembling, they clasp around the knife, bringing it up to his face. He can see his eyes reflect in the low dim of the blade’s silver, blue, glittering with tears, puffy at the edges. It feels like waves are crashing over his shoulder, dragging him down, down, down, down, until it’s physically painful to breathe, to exist.

He never releases his grip.

(it was his fault.)

—

The next day, the townspeople are in an uproar, when someone spots Viktor, leaning over an open window, staring into the sky with a melancholic look on his face, and his hair considerably shorter than they were used to. Some agonise over the loss of his starlight locks, and some praise how the shorter version fall over his eyes dreamily, shortness bringing out his impressively sharp jawline.

(what they do not notice, is that his eyes never seem to hold that bright spark of life and love, that it used to, before.)

**Author's Note:**

> HHhHhhHh i’m still not sure if that was any good, or if it was too widespread. i’ll do my best to improve, i hope you liked it !
> 
> kudos and comments fuel me <33


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